Irish Red, Son of Big Red. Jim Kjelgaard

slid from his black horse, raised his riding crop, and slashed Mike across the face. He struck again, and was preparing to hit a third time, when Mike backed away.

      He did not cringe or slink, as a beaten or spiritless dog would, nor did he display any hostility toward this new and unexpected assailant. For generations Mike’s breed had been taught that their place was with men. Only in protection of his own master, or his master’s household, would an Irish setter attack a human being.

      Mike had no thought of striking back at John Price, but he could take the measure of this man and file it away in his brain for future reference. He backed warily, keeping cautious eyes on the riding crop. Mike dodged aside when the man rushed him, and feinted to the other side when he rushed again. Both times the riding crop slashed only empty air.

      Then Danny was between Mike and his attacker. Danny’s sinewy fingers closed and tightened about the hand that held the riding crop.

      “Stop it!” he commanded.

      For a moment they stood eye to eye, two young men who took each other’s measure much as Mike had taken John Price’s. When the other tried to jerk away, Danny tightened his fingers. Then John Price relaxed and Danny let him go. Grimly he stepped back.

      “No need to keep on hitting a dog after he’s stopped fighting.”

      “He could use a lesson!”

      “He don’t get his lessons with whips!”

      Mr. Haggin had dismounted and was holding the young English setter’s collar. Turning his back on Danny, John Price walked back to the black and white dog. He stooped, and explored with probing fingers. Then he rose.

      “He isn’t hurt,” he said to Mr. Haggin.

      “I wouldn’t think so.” Mr. Haggin sounded slightly sarcastic. “That puppy isn’t more than five months old.”

      Ross had caught Mike, and now stood uncertainly near. This was not the way things should have happened. But they had happened, and he would stand by Danny and Mike.

      “Little pepper pot,” Mr. Haggin grinned, coming toward them. “Wonder what possessed him?”

      “No telling what possesses Mike to do anything,” Danny said. “Guess he just wanted a fight.”

      “As I was saying when I was so rudely interrupted,” Mr. Haggin continued, “I thought it would be a good idea if you met my nephew. John, shake hands with Danny Pickett.”

      John Price spoke to the English setter, who dropped instantly, and came forward. He had, Danny decided, been annoyed when Mike jumped his dog. Well, that might make anybody mad and John Price seemed over it now. He smiled and extended his hand.

      “Glad to know you, Danny.”

      “And I’m glad to know you.”

      Mr. Haggin took over. “I’m going on a rather extended trip, guess you both know that? I’ve been awaiting the opportunity a long while, but until I got hold of John I didn’t have anybody to leave in command here. I just want both of you to know that John will be in complete charge, and you can go to him for anything you need.”

      “We’ll get along,” Ross said.

      “I’m sure you will.”

      “Where are you going, Mr. Haggin?” Danny inquired.

      “Quite a few places, Danny. I’m going to look at some of the world’s best horses, cattle, and sheep, and see if I can bring back anything that will improve our Wintapi stock. I’ll be in Arabia, Holland, England, Ireland, and maybe other countries.” Mischief lighted his eyes. “Maybe I’ll even find a better Irishman than Big Red.”

      “There aren’t any!” Danny said quickly.

      John Price laughed, then gestured toward Mike with his riding crop.

      “You told me you had champion Irish setters up here, Uncle Dick. Do you call that one?”

      “Mike’s one of Sheilah’s pups, but I admit he isn’t much like his father or mother.”

      “Where are the rest of them?”

      Ross spoke up. “Red and Sheilah’s prowlin’ somewhere. The rest of the pups are penned.”

      John Price looked puzzled. “You let prize-winning dogs roam at will?”

      Ross shrugged. “Why not? Irish setters was meant to run loose. You can’t keep ‘em in any piddlin’ little coop and make ‘em like it.”

      John Price gave him a sharp look.

      “May I see the pups?”

      “Sure,” said Ross, retaining his hold on Mike.

      When they started away, the black and white setter half rose. John Price spoke sharply and the dog settled back down on the grass. Danny frowned, not understanding. A dog was more than just an animal. He furnished love, and loyalty, and companionship, and something that made you feel warm inside when you and your dog were all alone in the deep woods. A dog was not merely something that dropped, or heeled, or fetched, on command, as though he were always in a cage fashioned of his master’s thought and will. Plainly John Price thought of dogs in a way that had never occurred to either Danny or Ross.

      Danny fell in beside Mr. Haggin, and they followed Ross and John Price toward the wire cage. Sheilah’s four children came yelling to meet them, and reared against the wire. Ross picked Mike up and dropped him beside his brother and sisters.

      “Ever see a nicer-looking bunch of pups?” Mr. Haggin said proudly.

      For a moment John Price did not speak. “No,” he said slowly, “I never did, Uncle Dick. I never saw a nicer-looking bunch—or a more useless one.”

      “Useless?” Danny bristled.

      “That’s exactly what I mean. What are those four pups ever going to do besides add to Uncle Dick’s collection of blue ribbons? The fifth won’t even do that; he might better be shot right now.”

      “Shot!” Danny gasped.

      “It’s straight talk. Oh, nobody will deny that the Irishman’s a beautiful dog; the average Irish setter has a more striking appearance and more flash than bench winners of almost any other breed. That’s exactly their trouble. People who care more about looks than anything else have taken the Irishmen over; everything except an ability to win blue ribbons at dog shows has been bred out of them.”

      “Did you ever shoot behind a good Irish setter?”

      John Price laughed. “There aren’t any good ones.”

      “That isn’t so! My Red dog, he’ll out-run and out-hunt anything that’s ever been in the Wintapi!”

      Danny stopped, remembering something he had momentarily forgotten. Red had been able to out-run and out-hunt anything in the Wintapi. Red was now a cripple. His hunting ability was unimpaired, but he couldn’t possibly match the pace of a young, fast dog.

      “Before you two get to fighting,” Mr. Haggin said, “maybe I’d better explain what this is all about. John’s got the idea that, if we switch to English setters, we can collect some field trial cups as well as bench wins. He says he’ll prove it. The dog that came up here with us, John says, is going to take the National Field Trials.”

      “You,” Danny stammered, “you aren’t going to sell your Irish setters?”

      “Not yet anyhow; John hasn’t proven a thing. But I’ll back the best dog.”

      “Oh,” Danny said.

      He felt a dull emptiness that began at the pit of his stomach and spread both ways. Until now, there had been no word or thought of selling Sheilah and the pups, and switching to some other dog. Danny was staggered by the very thought of such a thing. John Price spoke eagerly.

      “Let